


no beginning, no end

by Enigel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-11
Updated: 2007-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Their kisses always tasted of sweat, often of blood, always of pain. Dean thought it was only right. Sam... who knew what Sam really thought?</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	no beginning, no end

They'd fight until they were both drained and bruised and bleeding.

They'd cover each other in bruises, but still none of them would surrender.

Dean would always win - at first because he was the big brother, stronger by default, then because he practiced a lot. Sam would spend time reading, learning, and this cut into his workout time. So Dean would challenge him to fights, would find ways to provoke a fight - it wasn't hard; sparks flew easily between them.

As the age difference stopped being so significant, Dean would still win.

So they'd fight until they couldn't fight anymore, because when Sam seemed close to being defeated Dean would whisper in his ear "calling it quits yet?" and Sam would hear that whisper with his whole body and shiver with the will to surrender, so he'd grunt "No" or just shake his head and somehow draw more strength to shift, claw or punch his way out, and the fight would begin anew.

Every once in a while he'd get Dean in a death grip, and then he wouldn't say anything; he'd wait and breathe into Dean's ear or neck or stare into his eyes.

If they were tired, exhausted, too drained to move, there was less danger for a grip to become an embrace, a punch to segue into a caress and a snarl to end in a kiss. They still did, sometimes.

Their kisses always tasted of sweat, often of blood, always of pain. Dean thought it was only right. Sam... who knew what Sam really thought?

One day he up and left, and Dean never saw it coming, because his eyes were closed in anticipation of a kiss or a blow.

One day Sam had said "You're right, we're sick, I'm leaving" and that was all the advance warning Dean got.

They weren't meant to stop like _that_, and he still punched the table (or his own hand, knee or head) when he thought of it.

*

One day he'd conceded the fight, as if on a dare, or as a dare. Sam had gotten him pretty good, and Dean could have regained the upper hand if he really tried, but pinned on the floor, with the weight and height of his not-so-little brother pressing the air out of him, making him dizzy, and with Sam's eyes piercing his, he let his whimsy take the better of him.

"Okay," he'd choked out, "you win."

The pressure had lessened just enough so he could breathe, and when he did he inhaled a lungful of Sam-scented air. Sam's fingers were gripping painfully at his sides and arms. Then Sam had tasted his victory on Dean's lips, and that's one of the images Dean will take with him to his grave - Sam, eyes wide open, his lips on Dean's, kissing him hungrily.

Dean felt like closing his eyes and waiting for Judgment Day, but he was compelled to look, transfixed by Sam's eyes. Then he felt Sam's tongue slip between his lips, and a whimper that must have been his own, and realized that nothing was pinning him to the ground anymore, nothing but Sam's eyes.

Dean never conceded a fight again, and neither did Sam, and if John thought his sons were a bit too violent in their training, he still had no idea.


End file.
